I
t’s after lunch on a late August Monday, when some kind of mad
series of connections, frantic social-media messaging, fickle
arrangements and tactically deliberate procrastinations lead you to
this very moment. There’s no internet surf cameras that have drawn
you here, no phone call reports from a frothing mate, no Instagram
reveal ... just a hunch and a fist full of weather data that’s brought you
all together - here and now.
Huffing through the thicket, ever mindful of the rust-caked barbed wire
fences, long buried beneath the sands, and the occasional brown
snake that resides herein, you traverse across the sun-parched dunes,
to eventually climb that last slope and crawl over the gritty white peak.
This is the view you all receive. This is the reward and this is where the
next three hours will be spent - with just a handful of other surfing beings
along this glistening stretch of shifting silica and turquoise-rippled
waters. This is the real Gold Coast fun park, and you don’t have to pay
some filthy foreign corporation for your ticket to ride here.